O bough,

                  whence springs the apple of my eye,

Whose apples sup the music from your skin,

Let not your fingers falter in their grip

To let the wind unclench your sturdy hand

Before your fruits with ripened melodies

Incline themselves to fall upon the clay. 

O apple,

                  whose descent does me disease

For with you leaves a shiver of my flesh

And kills me, steals a seed of what I am,

And plants below the clay another tree

Whose apples taste familiar with my song

And chokes the very roots from which it sprung:

Instead, let you be plucked and carried off

And swallowed from the flesh until the core,

And let your better music be enjoyed

But bitter seed discarded and destroyed.